Black Goes First
by The-Cursed-Daughter
Summary: A new chess set catches Kroenen's eye, and he sees there's more to the game than black and white.......Kroenen/OC, kind of


_This is what happens when a WWII fanatic (I love studying WWII) watches Inglorious Basterds._

The fic crosses over very, very slightly with Inglorious Basterds, but not enough to put it in the Crossover category. So technically, this is our first kinda-sorta crossover!

_This is just a fic to get over my writer's block, and I really wanted to write something about Kroenen. I may or may not expand on this, depending on reviews._

Emma is twenty-six, and the year is 1943. Kroenen still has his face.

_**Warnings/Disclaimers: We own nothing but the plot, Mr. McGarthy, Emma Raine, and the chess set.**_

_Nein: No_

_Ja: Yes_

* * *

There it was again.

As it did everyday for the past week, as he walked to the Fuhrer's personal compound, Kroenen's gait slowed as it passed the game shop. Normally, he wouldn't bother with such childish distractions—games were for children, and as he was not a child, games were no concern of his—but recently, the proprietor of the shop had updated his wares. A brand-spanking-new chess set was on display in the main window.

The polished wood reflected the passerby outside the window, and the ivory and ebony squares shimmered in the spotlight the owner of the store had put the set under. The pieces—carved to resemble mythical creatures—were already set up to play.

But today, Kroenen stopped completely. One of the pieces—a black pawn that looked like a wil-o-wisp—had been moved two spaces forward, where it would be easily seen from the street. Behind his mask, Kroenen's blonde eyebrows furrowed. White _always_ moved first—what kind of amateur dared move the black?

Glancing up and down the street, the Nazi ducked into the shop, the bell on the door ringing in his wake.

"Excuse me," the shopkeeper—a plump, elderly man with graying hair sticking out in all directions—stuck his head out from the back, "Can I help....." his voice died in his throat as he saw Kroenen's mask.

The blonde shook his head. "_Nein._ I am just looking." Once the owner had disappeared into the back again, Kroenen quickly pushed the pawn back into its place. Smirking smugly behind his mask, he slipped out of the store.

* * *

They'd done it again.

A week later, Kroenen had been called to the Fuhrer's compound again—the officer who had called him had muttered something vague and hung up. As he walked past the shop, casually glancing at the chess set, he suddenly stopped short, the man behind him almost slamming into the Nazi's back.

The black pawn, the one he'd moved back a week ago, had been moved two spaces forward again. Kroenen frowned—so that's how they wanted to play it, eh? Storming into the shop and brushing past the owner with an obscure mumble, he moved one of the white pawns forward.

As he turned to leave, a thought occurred to him and he moved another white pawn forward—taking back white's stolen turn. The owner of the store watched him curiously, peering over his shoulder as he moved the pieces. When Kroenen turned to walk out of the store, the man took a step back, his nose still almost brushing Kroenen's chest.

Glancing once at him, and once more at the chess set, Kroenen strode out of the store.

* * *

A week later, another black pawn had been moved.

This time, Kroenen hadn't been called to the Fuhrer's compound—sheer curiosity forced him out of Rasputin's manor and down the street to the shop. His mysterious opponent had moved another of their pieces—the wil-o-wisp pawn next to the first one that had been moved.

Slipping through the doorway again, startling the shopkeeper as the bell rang, Kroenen crossed over into the chess set. The owner followed him. "That is a very beautiful chess set, isn't it? The wood is alder, and the ivory comes all the way from Africa. If you're interested in buying it—"

Kroenen shook his head as he pushed one of his pawns forward. "I have no interest in buying it, but I vould like to know who has been moving ze pieces, besides myself."

The other man shrugged. "I'm usually in the back, sir. I don't see everyone who walks in here. Perhaps a child, simply fooling around?"

"Perhaps." With that vague answer, Kroenen left the store—twice as curious as he had been before.

* * *

The black king's knight—a dragon curled around a spear—had moved forward the next time he came around, two weeks later.

Kroenen was smirking as he walked in, nodding to the shopkeeper. Whoever he was playing was intelligent—as of yet, he hadn't been able to identify the strategy. "Pawn to G5," he muttered to himself as he moved the piece. Casually, glancing to make sure the owner wasn't watching, Kroenen slipped off his glove, and picked up the black knight.

His eyebrows arched as he realized it was still warm—his opponent has been here recently. Slipping his hand back into the glove, he scanned the streets, looking for anyone watching him. Finding no one, he shrugged and left.

* * *

A week later, the black knight hadn't moved.

Despite himself, Kroenen became worried. Where was his opponent? Had the game ended before it could begin? Glancing once more through the window, he crossed the street, taking a seat at the café to wait—maybe he had just come early. As he watched the window, he almost jumped out of his skin as someone behind him asked, "Can I help you?"

Turning to glare at the waitress from behind his mask, Kroenen shook his head. As the confused girl left, the Nazi glanced back at the shop, and his jaw dropped. Another black pawn had joined its fellows and the knight on the field. He rushed over to the shop to see if he could catch the person, but they were gone. Grudgingly flicking the white's queen's bishop into play—and vaguely noticing the major mistake his opponent had made—he vowed he'd get them next time.

* * *

The next black knight had blood on it, pooling in a circle around the figure, and dripping from the dragon's open maw in a grotesque stream.

Kroenen found himself worrying in spite of himself—had something happened?—and yet, he found himself smiling. To think that despite serious injury, his opponent had continued the game gave him respect for the man behind the black pieces; even though he had made such a fatal mistake.

At the same time however, his eyes widened in surprise. Where last week he had seen a flaw in a plan, he now saw brilliance and cunning. Where he had thought that his foe had moved his pieces too close to his own, he now realized he was very nearly trapped. All of the black pieces were far enough away to keep from being taken, but close enough to threaten his king—one of the only pieces of the back row that didn't have a pawn in front of it.

He'd been played, and it would take a hefty amount of maneuvering to get out of it. He grinned again. "Game on."

* * *

Several weeks later, after the white side had sustained some serious damage and Kroenen was itching to continue the game, the chess set was gone.

The Nazi stood stock still in front of the store, swaying as the crowd pushed past him, blinking and blinking again. It was gone. Bursting into the store, the door slamming into the wall, he all-but ran to the owner. "Please tell me you have just moved ze chess set.

"I'm afraid not." The shopkeeper shook his head. "A young boy came in, saying he was sent to buy it for his employer. But," he added, "he also asked me to pass on a message. Your opponent wants 'the dashing man in the gas mask' to meet them 'at the café on corner of 1st and Albert's Way'."

To his dying day, Mr. McGarthy—owner and operator of 'Garthy's Games'—had never seen a man run so fast.

* * *

Kroenen was almost out of breath, and had almost been run over twice, as he jumped the fence blocking the café from the street. Striding past the hostess, he scanned the people—nine men—scattered across the tables, looking for the one who brought him here.

He saw the chess set first, set up exactly as it had been the last time he came to the store. To his immense surprise—seeing as how he didn't rip his eyes away from the chess set until he had reached the table—the face he looked up into was a young woman's. She winked at him, her brown-gold eyes glinting, and extended a tanned hand. "Nice to meet ya."

Numbly, he shook the offered hand, watching as it slid back to slid a lock of light brown hair from the girl's face. "You are a—"

"Girl?" She shrugged. "I get that a lot. My name is Emma, by the way. Emma Raine."

"Karl."

Emma grinned and gestured to the game. "Well, take a seat, Karl."

As he sat down, Emma whistled. "Pretty little pickle you've gotten yourself into." She pointed at his king.

Kroenen looked up as she moved her rook. "Your accent is very strange. Vhere are you from?"

"Tennessee. My big brother's here on business, and I'm helpin'."

The man nodded as he slid his queen to the side. "Enjoying your stay?"

_"Very."_ She picked up her bishop—a wizened wizard—and knocked over his knight. "Germany is nice—nicer than France."

"You've been to France?" Emma frowned as her rook—a towering tree—fell, and Kroenen couldn't help but smirk as she nodded absently, her eyes flicking back and forth from piece to piece.

There were a few moments of silence before she asked, "You're SS, aren't you?"

Kroenen paused, and she explained as she moved her queen again, "Swastika on your hat."

Surprised—he had forgotten he was wearing it—Kroenen nodded.

"You're Hitler's Hitman, aren't you?"

The man winced at the nickname—goddamned anarchists. _"Ja."_ His bishop moved forward, and he cringed as Emma's pawn swung forward to take it. One of his knights quickly took the pawn.

"There sure are a lot of you. Nazis, I mean," Emma commented as her queen moved diagonally again.

There was something in the tone of her voice that made Kroenen hesitate, his gloved hand hovering above his queen—a tall, beautiful fairy that appeared to stand in the face of a blowing wind, her hair whisping out behind her over her wings. "Vhat did you say you vere in Germany for again?"

Emma glanced up at him. "Business with my brother and his friends."

"And what did you say your brother's name was?"

She smiled and moved her remaining rook. "I didn't, but his name's Aldo."

Warning bells went off in Kroenen's head—he knew the name, but couldn't place it. Cautiously, he moved his queen to meet hers. "And vhat did you say you did?"

Emma moved her queen to the side, and Kroenen realized he had been checkmated—at the same moment, he realized that was the least of his problems. A split second before she answered, Kroenen noticed how every patron of the café was carrying a gun.

Emma smiled. "I kill Nazis."

* * *

REVIEW!

_We wanna know what you think!_

_Kit &_ Violet


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